The ABCs of Sherlock Holmes's Favourite Foods
by SherlockLives19
Summary: Sherlock's a picky eater; time has proven that to John after months of living with the childish detective. And like any picky child, Sherlock has his favourites. Oneshots covering Sherlock's 'favourite foods', from A to Z.
1. Apple

**The ABCs of Sherlock Holmes's Favourite Foods**

John had a penchant for buying food. Well, okay, _everyone_ had to buy food to survive, but John tended to buy food that Sherlock had never previously had the time for.

Fruit, for instance.

Sherlock never had time or ambition to fuss with fruit. More often than not, it involved some time in cleaning the fruit, peeling the fruit, sweetening the fruit... Of course, any of those options depended on the type of fruit that you had. All fruit was _supposed_ to be rinsed off, technically, for pesticides and all that rubbish. Oranges needed the peel taken off. Nectarines and grapefruit were more often than not bland or sour to the taste before it was left to soak in a three-fourths parts sugar and one-fourth part water solution.

Sherlock just didn't have _time_ for these things.

It wasn't that Sherlock didn't _like_ them.

He liked the crunch of the first bite of an apple- with the peel, thank you very much- and the sweet (or the sour, depending on the apple) rushing over his taste buds in a cascade of taste and flavour. He liked the way that an apple was pliable beneath his teeth, easily broken down or nibbled on with little effort.

Oranges were delicious. The fact of the matter was that he liked to create a rip, a small tear, in the otherwise perfect expanse of pocketed orange peel. Then, he could hook his finger under the protective layer of that succulent fruit and begin to wind the peel away. The smell of oranges pervading the air, the scent imprinted onto the fingers used to peel the orange...

There were things he didn't like, naturally. Bananas were too mushy and pears were too tough for his liking.

But it didn't matter, because he didn't have time for it.

And then suddenly he _did_, because John was there and John bought all the fruit and John did all the rubbish that needed to be done with it. (Provided, of course, that the rubbish needed to be to it didn't involve it spoiling in a few days.) The apples that went in the bowl were already washed and ready to be eaten. Same with the oranges in the kitchen, except they still needed peeled. John even bought cans of fruit cocktail, not that Sherlock liked canned fruit. There were bananas in the flat for a short time until John learned that Sherlock would just let them rot, which would attract fruit flies and gnats.

Sherlock sighed and got to his feet, stretching. He'd been sitting at the microscope for six hours and John had been out for two. The experiment was finished, mostly, and Sherlock found the familiar ache in the pit of his stomach demanding that he acquiesce to its needs.

A quick glance through the cupboards told Sherlock what John must have earlier- John had gone out shopping. Or, he intended to go shopping before he came home. Two hours was an awfully long time to spend grocery shopping, so he had clearly gone somewhere else in the meantime. There was nothing in the fridge, save half of a petrol station vending machine sandwich and even famished, Sherlock wouldn't have touched that.

With a quiet huff, Sherlock's eyes fell on the fruit bowl on the sitting room coffee table. He perked up and strode across the room, picking one up. He turned it over, made sure that the produce sticker had been removed, and raised it to his lips.

He flopped onto the sofa as he took the first bite of the apple. The flavour immediately exploded into his mouth and he licked his lips, catching a bit of juice as it trickled past his lips.

He crunched on the apple contemplatively for a moment. It was sweet, not sour. The colour signified that it was not Granny Smith, but most probably... a Gala? He took another bite and munched it on in speculation. Definitely Gala, he concluded, licking another stray droplet of saliva and juice from his lips.

It was pleasant to find that apples were still as good as Sherlock remembered.

Sherlock took another bite and leaned back against the sofa's cushions. He propped his feet up and reached for the remote, eyes still bright with the edible and tasty deduction.

* * *

**New series... although this isn't going to have a structured pattern for updates, but I've been working on it a lot. Sherlock's favourite foods! And this certain type of writing... lots and lots of details. ;) There'll be entrees, there'll be snacks, there'll be drinks, desserts, and maybe sweets themselves. There's a lot of option here. Lots of fluffy Sherlock, lots of food. How is that bad?**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


	2. Biscuit

As any English man, Sherlock took no exception to tea and biscuits.

It took him not having a case to actually sit down and partake in tea time, but the thing was that biscuits were _constantly_ nearby. They were in the alcove right above his head when he sat at the microscope, straight up and to the right slightly. If he was hungry when he was working- which was rare- all he had to do was reach up and grab the tin of the chosen biscuits of the week.

Such as was this morning.

Sherlock irritably knitted his fingers into his pyjamas as his stomach growled loudly in the otherwise silent flat. It was three twenty-seven in the morning. John was asleep and therefore, he had no one nagging at him to actually eat when his stomach growled. But, still, he hadn't eaten in a couple days and it felt like his stomach was turning in on itself.

Grumbling under his breath, he fumbled for the shelf and felt around for the tin of biscuits. His fingers closed around the cool metal box, the place where all their biscuits went when they were, inevitably, opened to take the first taste of. If left in the package, they would quickly get stale and a stale biscuit was of no use to anyone.

Without looking away from his microscope, Sherlock set the tin down almost silently next to him, freeing his opposite hand to reach across to the tin. Steadying the box with one hand, he easily flipped it open with his other before both hands went back to changing the slide of his microscope.

His stomach growled again; perhaps it was aware that food was in arm's reach and it had no desire to be ignored any longer. Sherlock impatiently- but ever as carefully- slid the new slide under the lens before straightening, magnifying, focussing. Only after his eyes were able to stare keenly at the new specimen did he allow his hands to other things: the tin of biscuits.

Long, pale fingers reached in, felt first the crumbs of biscuits long since consumed. He felt around for a hairbreadth of a second before his fingers brushed over the smooth expanse of a biscuit. He removed it from the tin and, still without once looking up, parted his lips and placed it between them. Light pressure from his teeth, the slightest constriction of his jaw, and the biscuit broke into two unequal pieces with a delicate crunch. Crumbs fluttered down from the mismatched edges, littering his trousers with barely noticeable beige flecks.

He chewed the biscuit quickly, slow enough to savour the slight sweetness and the delicate craft, but in such a time that his saliva would not cause the biscuit to become soggy. He swallowed and placed the leftover part of the biscuit on his tongue, letting it chase its companion in its journey to his stomach.

Methodically, he swiped the crumbs from his trousers and reached to switch out slides again.

He repeated the process again, drawing another chosen treat from the tin at his side to begin anew.

* * *

**I want some biscuits now. And that's all I'm going to say.**

**(Although- It's almost Thanksgiving for the non-Brits, which meaaannnss... Bonaffee pie! With lovely lovely British type biscuits.)**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you for your kind comments. :) **


	3. Crisps

Crisps were something that Sherlock was relatively picky about.

He hated the ruffled or ridged ones. Too easy was it to cut one's mouth open or scrape the gum line when an already sharp object had further means to do so. And, to Sherlock, there seemed to be far too much _crunch_ in ridged crisps. Too much work to work through the excess potato that ridges caused. Far easier for the jaw to hurt from excessive chewing and, although he wasn't sure, perhaps harder to digest. (To be honest, he didn't care enough to put that much research into it.)

Flavoured crisps also held no interest. Crisps were supposed to be a mean of consuming potato. When flavoured with prawn or chili, there was little potato flavour and far much left to be desired. Anyway, most flavourings used on crisps did not match up to what they were supposed to, they were constantly over-seasoned, or smelled off.

Plain crisps, perhaps, were his favourite. Crisps weren't something he snacked on all the time, but John had a fondness for them and it was another thing around the flat. Sherlock simply liked them because they were convenient.

Still, even plain crisps had to be _perfect_. They could not be too thick and they could not contain large amounts of MSG. The thinner the crisp, the better; the crisps that sometimes had air pockets in them made for a delightful treat.

Sherlock watched with some distaste as John crunched noisily on a bag of crisps. "You got the wrong kind."

John glanced away from the television, licking grease off of his fingers. "Huh?"

"Crisps," Sherlock said shortly.

John glanced at the bag of crisps- kettle-cooked- before looking back at the television. "No, I didn't. These are good."

"Impossible," Sherlock replied. "They're too crunchy."

John made a face. "They're crisps, Sherlock. They're supposed to be."

Sherlock fell silent again.

However, as soon as John had abandoned the television in favour of going to wash up for bed, Sherlock was across the room in three quick steps. He removed a singular crisp from the single-serving bag and looked at it intently. He ran his fingers over the surface of it, feeling the granules of salt. He held it up to the light, checking for the depth. He sniffed at it briefly. He was fairly sure, given the crunching John had been doing, that these were not crisps for him. But it was an experiment and he was not one to back away from that.

He placed the crisp in his mouth as a whole entity, letting his tongue and the roof of his mouth cocoon it snugly. Taste seeped onto his tongue, pervading his entire mouth before he hesitantly let his teeth crunch down on it.

The pressure exerted to get the crisp to break between his teeth was more than the average store-bought crisp. It almost had a consistency of biting onto a thin layer of glass. It cracked and crunched noisily, far too noisily for his mind, as he chewed slowly.

He licked his lips when he had swallowed it down, chasing away the remnants of the taste. It had not had a particularly good taste and the feel of it had been a displeasure as well.

Sherlock dropped the bag of crisps with nostrils flared in annoyance before going to pour himself a cup of tea.

* * *

**And, unlike the biscuits chapter, I doubt this makes anyone want to run out and eat some crisps, haha. Anyway, I _promise_ that there's going to be actual food featured, and not just snacks, and drinks and sweets, too.**

**(PS: I haven't forgotten about my other stories. The muse is down again, and I just happened to have some chapters already written for this story. I'm hoping to work on a chapter for _Surprise!_, so we'll see how the muse goes.)**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you for your support and reviews; I love to read them!**


	4. Dark Chocolate

Dark chocolate was Sherlock's favourite kind of chocolate.

Not that he ate a lot of chocolate, mind, he thought as he eyed the trays upon trays of chocolates; John was buying coffee and sweets from the shop.

There was a lot to chocolate. There was dark chocolate, milk chocolate, white chocolate, caramel filled chocolate, chocolate covered whatever... The uses for the treat was wildly used and very accepted in today's society.

Milk chocolate was fine, but its taste was so dull to the rich, smooth taste of dark chocolate. Asides from antioxidants, dark chocolate also seemed to have an almost _bite_ to it, an acridness in itself, not entirely bitter but luscious on the tongue.

White chocolate was his least favourite. It was even more sweet than milk chocolate and it made his teeth ache when it melted between them. There was too much sensation to white chocolate and Sherlock wasn't one for sweets, anyway.

So, dark chocolate was his favourite simply because it was less sweet.

Adding anything to chocolate was far too overpowering as well. Caramel or chocolate whip filling, molasses or marshmallow... No. Far too much sweet, too much sugar. Filled chocolates were cavities in a box and the taste (or thought) of them could make Sherlock gag.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked away from the displays. "Yes?"

"Did you want something? You're staring at it intently enough."

Sherlock licked his lips. "I don't care. Are you getting something?"

"Pecan clusters."

"Hmm." Those weren't bad, either. Nuts didn't take away from the taste of the chocolate, sometimes even accentuated it. "Just the dark chocolate squares if you're already getting something."

"Plain dark chocolate?"

Sherlock nodded shortly.

"That's dull," John said teasingly, but told the clerk what Sherlock wanted.

Later, as they watched some drama on the BBC, Sherlock relished in the taste of the chocolate melting in the humid cavern of his mouth. He licked it off of his teeth where he had bitten into the piece of chocolate and absently closed his eyes.

"Okay there?"

Sherlock licked his lips and opened his eyes. He looked towards John. "What?"

"You look like you're in your own world," John said shortly. "Enjoying the chocolate?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's chocolate, John."

"Yeah, but you look like you're enjoying it."

Sherlock sniffed, resisted the urge to repeat the sentiments of everyone Sherlock had ever deduced before John- _"piss off"_-, and sank a little lower on the sofa. He pointed at the television. "The best friend's wife is about to get killed."

John's head snapped back to the television. "What? _No_."

Sherlock smiled faintly and took another bite of his chocolate.

* * *

_**D **_**was really difficult, okay?! But, of all the sweets that Sherlock could eat, dark chocolate seemed the best bet because it's not too sweet or sugary.**


	5. Eggs

"You want breakfast?"

"Please. Eggs, sunny side up."

Sherlock yawned as he pulled the barstool out and sat, leaning against the wall.

"Toast?" John asked, pulling the carton of eggs out of the fridge.

Sherlock sighed. "Obviously."

Rarely did Sherlock want breakfast, anything past toast itself, but sometimes, if he wasn't working or if he hadn't eaten for a few days, he'd opt for eggs, toast, and tea. Sometimes, if they had it in the house, he'd also have sausage or bacon, but he knew for a fact that they had nothing of the sort today.

Breakfast was something to be taken care with. There were countless ways to take one's eggs- fried or scrambled, for instance- but Sherlock infinitely preferred sunny side up.

There was just something about it, Sherlock reckoned, the way that the yolk of the egg perfectly sat cradled on its white, embracing throne. There was something in the handling of the sunny side up, that if too much pressure was applied or if it was flipped wrong, moved quickly... One wrong move and the yolk would bust: a balloon punctured too soon. The yolk could not bust until ready, not until there was a corner of toast there to quickly mop up the spill. Wasting the yolk would be horrendous when the taste was so divine.

Sherlock waited impatiently, yawning widely again. He watched John's back as the doctor worked at the stove. He hoped John wouldn't ruin the eggs. He had on a couple of occasions and Sherlock had flat-out refused to eat them.

But when the plate was set in front of him with two sunny side up eggs, and two pieces of toast, cut neatly into halves, Sherlock couldn't have been more happy- or more ravenous.

He eagerly picked up his fork and cut off a section of the white, placing it onto his tongue. It was hot and had little taste without seasoning; salt and pepper, how could have he forgotten in his haste? He looked and found no salt or pepper shaker on the island. Instead, they were sitting on the stove. Sherlock pushed himself from his chair and collected them both, around John, who was pouring a cuppa, before returning to his seat. He added a bit of salt and a bit more pepper before taking another bite of the egg; perfect.

He picked up his toast and took a bite, chewing with measured bites. He washed it back with the cup of tea John had just set down before carefully dipping the corner of his toast into the egg yolk. With barely any persuasion, the yolk burst from its constraints, golden yellow spilling out across the plate like breakfast's own version of liquid gold. Sherlock quickly swept it away with a brush of his toast before placing the corner of the toast in his mouth. He bit down and sighed at the mixture of tastes and textures- smooth and silky from the egg yolk, dry and crumbly from the toast- before chewing it down to an appropriate size for allowing it to travel down his throat with a swallow.

He continued this way, sopping up the yolk of the first egg before wolfing down the rest of the egg white. And then onto the second, with as much care as the first, albeit if it was more hurried; eggs got cold fast when they were taken off the heat.

Sherlock finished off his toast with a cascade of small crumbles. He brushed his hands off over his breakfast plate and drank the last of his tea.

"Anything good in?" he asked, looking up at John, who was now sitting at the table and reading _The Guardian_.

John didn't look away from the paper. "No. Praise for Scotland Yard for catching that killer last night."

Sherlock smirked before pushing himself to his feet. "I'm going to have a shower," he said, drawing his dressing gown closer to his body as it fell in folds when he stood. He walked to the doorway of the hall and then paused, looking back at John. "Thanks for breakfast," he said, knowing that John was practically _bursting_ with pleasure that Sherlock had eaten something.

"Not a problem," John replied easily, but Sherlock heard the forced nonchalance.

He didn't comment, but smirked as he headed back to the bathroom.

* * *

**The whole point of writing like this is to bring out a craving, to accentuate the food, _obviously_, and while I'm generally pretty good about my own comments, I'll say this: I'm hungry. ****:p**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. I love to hear your opinions... so drop a review if you have the time. :)**


	6. Flatbread

For all of his misgivings that came with trying to find food that worked with his transport or his schedule, Sherlock wasn't particularly fussy in trying new things if John or Mrs Hudson made them. Mostly, it was one of those two that made sure Sherlock was fed every day, and, if not every day, at least on days where he wasn't working.

So, it was on one particularly grueling case that had been lasting for nine days that Sherlock was introduced to a flatbread. He had been trying to tell John that he didn't have time to eat, asides from a biscuit here or a piece of toast there, but his _stomach_ had been trying to tell _anyone_ who would listen that it was hungry.

"You're famished, Sherlock; listen to your stomach! You need to eat!"

"I _need_ to think," Sherlock replied calmly, ignoring his stomach growling and steepling his fingers underneath his chin. He stared at the ceiling until it hurt his eyes to stare at because of lack of sleep and then he closed his eyes.

"Stuff your thinking. I'm making you something."

Sherlock didn't bother to argue. John would make it anyway and it would turn out the same: Sherlock wouldn't eat.

However, not a half an hour later, Sherlock's interest was drawn further and further from the case and further to the smell wafting from the kitchen.

"John, what are you making? It's interfering with my thinking process," he complained, resisting from sitting up enough to look over the arm rest of the sofa at John.

"That's because you're hungry," John commented.

Sherlock groaned and rolled over, drawing his legs to his chest. There was nothing worse- well, nothing worse for the transport- than being hungry and smelling food but not being able to access it.

"Ten more minutes," John muttered.

True to his word, ever faithful John was at Sherlock's side in ten minutes, with some food on a plate. Sherlock's eyes glanced at the food and he could practically feel his mouth creating excess saliva to assist in digestion.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, trying to keep his tone monotone but yet still sitting up. There was no denying his transport this or he'd never be able to think again.

"A flatbread. Steak mushroom flatbread, actually."

Sherlock poked at the lightly toasted expanse of bread (in the shape of a circle, folded over halfway; it had to be a specific type of bread made for flatbreads) and peered at the insides of the flatbread. There were chopped up pieces of steak, mushrooms, and lots and lots of melted cheese. Clearly, the steak had been cooked before and had just been broiled, was that the word? Sherlock wasn't sure, to melt the cheese and toast the bread and heat the mushrooms.

Sherlock sniffed the air again and could wait no longer; he carefully took the plate from John and balanced it on his kneecaps, picking up the flatbread gingerly. He took a hesitant bite which produced only bread. It was the annoying corner of the sandwich, or in this case, flatbread, that couldn't hold filling without it falling out. So, after finding the bread to have a pleasantly firm outside but a soft, chewy inside, seasoned lightly with garlic and thyme, Sherlock took another bite.

Now he got the full-bodied flavour of the steak, the slight salty, slimy feeling of the mushrooms, and the warm cheese that pulled in strings from the flatbread. Coupled with the toasted bread, the explosion of flavours that complimented each other perfectly made him even more hungry than he had previously thought.

He took another bite.

"Do you like it?"

Sherlock nodded quickly and took another bite.

John laughed. "Take it easy."

Sherlock caught a strand of cheese as it broke off and hung limply from the flatbread. "Hungry," he said simply in response, raising his fingers to his lips to lick off the mixture of mozzarella and cheddar cheese blend.

"I can see that," John muttered. "Tea?"

"Sure," he said absently, taking another bite of his dinner.

It took approximately seventeen minutes for Sherlock to solve his case after he had a full and generally placated stomach. Heedless of John's smile as the doctor scrubbed the dishes, Sherlock grabbed his coat and ran out the door.

* * *

**Mph, flatbreads are my go-to. Actually, I'm kind of lazy and a horrible cook, so the kind I get is a kind of TV dinner deal. Microwave, three minutes later, steaming hot flatbread. Delicious. If you've had a flatbread, you probably get me. If not, you should probably try one.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you for your reviews! :)**


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